


Socks and Sandals

by allmystars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dean Winchester is Castiel's Boss, Fashion Designer Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romantic Fluff, Shy Castiel (Supernatural), Shy Dean Winchester, eventual domestic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21547690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmystars/pseuds/allmystars
Summary: Dean rubs his right thumb over the words circling his left wrist.Oh God, he’s wearing socks and sandals? That’s disgusting, it reads, reminding him every day that he’ll never meet his soulmate because there’s not a snowflake’s chance in hell that he’ll ever be caught dead in something like socks and sandals.Everyone has their soulmate's first thought when they meet scrawled on their left wrist. After they've met, it disappears.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 389





	Socks and Sandals

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading so many soulmate AU's recently and I just had to write my own!
> 
> Hope you like it!

Dean sighs, filled with dismay as he stares down at the sandals by his door. They’re the only matching pair and, despite _really_ not wanting to be _that_ person, he _refuses_ to wear mismatched shoes, even if he’s just running the garbage down to the dumpster.

With the bag clutched in one hand, Dean rubs his right thumb over the words circling his left wrist. _Oh God, he’s wearing socks and sandals? That’s disgusting_ , it reads, reminding him every day that he’ll never meet his soulmate because there’s not a snowflake’s chance in hell that he’ll ever be caught dead in something like socks and sandals, _especially_ while wearing his hotdog pajamas and a housecoat.

“Damnit,” he whispers under his breath. All of this because he forgot to take out the trash last night. Another heavy sigh, and this time, his shoulders fall with his dignity as he slips his feet into the sandals and cracks open the door.

Looking both ways before he exits, he finds the hallway empty. It _is_ almost eight o’clock, and most people should be gone by now, including Dean, but he’s the boss, so…

He hurries from his apartment, making sure to lock the door behind him before practically running for the elevator. No way he’s letting himself get caught on his floor looking like _this_. What would people _think_?

When he gets in the elevator, he steadfastly avoids looking in the mirror—he doesn’t need to be reminded of the fact that New York’s top fashion designer has stooped so low. It’s not like he had a choice, though—the garbage truck comes just after eight, so if he doesn’t get the garbage out now, he’ll be fined, and he can’t have it sitting in his kitchen for another week—there just wasn’t time to change first. He knows his hair is a mess, too—flopped down over his forehead and sticking in all directions at the back—and there’s probably drool dried on his cheek.

“Come on, come on, come _on_ ,” Dean murmurs, watching the numbers tick away as the elevator descends to the ground floor. He’ll have to go outside to toss his garbage, then race back in before anyone can see him. The stress is already pulsing through him and he wipes the sheen of sweat from his brow as he bounces on the balls of his feet.

The sandals slap his socked heels as he steps out of the elevator. _Oh, thank God_ , he thinks when he finds that the lobby, too, is empty. Even the security guard that’s normally behind the desk has stepped away for a moment.

Dean makes the mistake of looking up at the safety mirror in the corner and gets an eyeful of just how disturbed he looks. His sleep shirt has a big, orange nacho cheese stain on the front, and his hair is worse than he thought, but it’s the damned socks and sandals that really round out the homeless vibe he’s got going. _God, what did I do to deserve this?_

Dean steps out the door, his head twisting from side to side to make sure no one is looking as he speed-walks to the dumpster. He pinches his nose as he gets closer, and tosses his bag from as close as he dares to get. It arches high in the air, but lands just short and Dean curses himself and the world all over again.

He gags as he steps closer and clamps his hand over his mouth and nose as he stretches to reach his bag. When he finally manages to tangle his fingers in the plastic and pull it closer, he doesn’t waste any more time in tossing it over. He turns away, keeping his hand over his face as he ducks his head and jogs back to the front door.

Dean winces as the sound of his sandals slapping the cement walk reverberates through the above-ground parking and over to the tennis court. He knows the crew of ladies is watching him, and he tilts his head away from them, his face burning with humiliation as he swings the front door open and practically falls through into the lobby.

Dean stops for a moment to catch his breath, bending over with his hands on his knees and his keys clutched in one hand.

“Excuse me? This building is for residents only. The main office is across the way.” Dean looks up and is caught by a pair of startling blue eyes and a scowl that barely hides his disgust.

 _What a fucking dick_ , Dean thinks, before looking at the rest of him. _Damn cute, though_. In a perfectly tailored suit of charcoal grey and an emerald green tie, Dean thinks the man is definitely his type if he weren’t such an asshole.

“Yeah,” Dean says, standing tall as he approaches the card reader that will let him up to his floor. “I know.” The elevator _dings_ as it opens and Dean brushes past the man, who’s annoyance and shock are clear on his face.

“How did you—?”

Dean pivots as he walks, his sandals almost tripping him up, but he catches himself and quirks an eyebrow at the other man. “Sorry, this building is for residents only.” The door closes between them.

When Dean finally shuts his apartment door behind him, he’s shaking. His hands tremble as he drops his housecoat to the floor, and his stomach twists with nerves as he heads for the shower.

He didn’t have the courage after the first glimpse, but he _knows_ , deep down in his heart, that it’s true.

Stripped down to his birthday suit, the rest of his clothes, discarded in the hall, he stands in front of the mirror, his right hand wrapped around his left wrist, squeezing hard. He keeps his eyes closed as he takes deep, steadying breaths—his heart pounds a staccato beat in his chest. He feels sick. His stomach twists and flips, threatening his three-green smoothie, but he manages to swallow it down—for now, at least.

 _There’s no way_ , he thinks, his head shaking as he psyches himself up to open his eyes and see for himself. _It’s not possible; there’s no way that man is my soulmate._

He bounces on the balls of his feet. “Okay…okay,” he whispers and takes his hand away from his wrist. He doesn’t open his eyes, though—not yet. “You can do this, Dean. Come on.” But his eyes stay closed.

A frustrated growl rumbles from his chest and he slaps around for the tap, turning on the water and bending to splash some over his face. After, he’ll open his eyes.

The cold water makes his gasp when it hits his skin, but he does it again, rubbing at his tired eyes and forcing himself not to think too much about it as he opens them. _That wasn’t so hard!_ Dean blinks a few times and takes one last, deep breath before glancing over at his left wrist, and—

He barely makes it over the toilet before his breakfast comes back up.

Dean straightens his jacket as he steps out of the elevator on the top floor of the highrise he works in. He waves at his secretary, Bela, as he passes on his way to his office, not stopping even when she gets up from her chair and follows him down the hallway.

“Mr. Winchester, there are a few things I need you to sign.”

“Give them to my assistant; I’ll get to them in a bit,” he says, forcing himself to keep his head up as he walks.

“I would really rather you signed them now,” she tries to step in front of him to block his way, but he brushes past her, not in the mood for her pushiness this morning. “I need to send them out before two!” Her voice goes high and shrill, but his office doors are in sight, so he pushes on, picking up his pace as he clutches his briefcase tighter.

“I have a meeting I need to get to, so this will have to wait until _after_.” His hand is on the handle, his fingers curling around the cold metal when she places her hand on the door like it’ll stop him from opening it.

“Mr. Winchester, I really must insist—”

“And _I_ really must insist that you give them to my _assistant_ ,” he bites out, his eyes narrowing on hers as she sets her jaw. He nods to the little cubicle behind her. “She’s right over there. Leave them with her and I’ll get to them _later_.”

He swings the door open and shuts it firmly behind him before striding over to his desk and dropping his things. Falling into his chair, Dean lets out a heavy sigh and leans his head back, closing his eyes as unease wriggles in his stomach. _Shoulda just called in sick_ , he thinks as he flexes his fingers before rubbing his wrist—the skin, once marked with dark, scrawling words, is now as bare as the rest him—the marker that he’s met his soulmate.

He pushes the thought as far from his mind as he can get it—which isn’t very far, considering his heart still pounds a little too fast—and rolls his chair closer to his desk. He needs a coffee if he’s going to get through the day without biting someone’s head off.

Pressing the intercom on his desk phone, he waits for Hannah to pick up. “Yes, Mr. Winchester?” Hannah says in her flat, professional tone.

“Can you bring in the files Bela dropped off, please? A coffee, too, if you don’t mind?” He rests his elbows on the edge of his desk and buries his head in his hands as he waits for her reply.

“Certainly, sir.”

“Thank you, Hannah.” She clicks off and Dean rubs at his eyes. He has a meeting in ten minutes, which doesn’t give him very long to pull himself together, but the coffee will help. He hopes.

There’s a knock at his door, then Hannah pokes her head through and Dean waves her in. Her heels click on the hardwood floors as she crosses to his desk, contracts in one hand and his coffee in the other. He makes grabby hands at the latter, and she passes it over with a smile.

“You’re a saint. Remind me to give you a raise,” he murmurs as he takes a sip of the scalding coffee. He winces but takes another sip anyway.

“Noted,” she says, setting down the contracts before pulling up her iPad. “Would you like me to go over your schedule for today?”

He waves her on, leaning back in his chair and holding his coffee in both hands while he listens.

“You have a meeting at nine-fifteen in the conference room—more of a lecture session, actually. There are a few new recruits, so we’re just trying to get a sense of what they know and how they operate.” She pauses for a moment and Dean nods to himself as she taps away on her iPad. “Then you need to meet with the executive design team and approve their sketches at eleven. After lunch, you have a meeting with the board, but then you’re free until after two. At two-thirty, you will have a conference call with the executives of Vogue; they want to feature your new collection in this year's fall issue.”

“Wonderful,” Dean murmurs, twisting back and forth in his chair, his thoughts a million miles away. “And after that?”

“After that, you just need to make sure you’re up-to-date on your paperwork.” She grins, then, and Dean scowls at the thought.

“That why I hired you, isn’t it?” He gives her a sharp look and she actually has the audacity to roll her eyes.

“Forgery is a crime.” She picks up the contracts again, only to toss them right in front of him where they land with a thump. “Sign your contracts.” She shoots him a wink, then leaves, her heels clicking all the way to the door.

“Remind me to fire you!” he shouts after her, but the door is already closing between them. He shakes his head, a proper smile spreading across his lips for the first time today. He checks the time—ten after nine. He’d better get going.

Dean makes sure to grab his iPad and his coffee—the two most important things in his day—and heads out. He waves at Hannah as he passes, smiling when she mouths _sign your contracts_ at him.

“Okay,” he says, loud and clear, as he pushes through the conference room doors. The chatter quiets down almost instantly, and he can feel every set of eyes in the room trained on him as he makes his way to the head of the table and takes his seat. “Let’s get started, yeah?”

He sets up his powerpoint, pairing his iPad to the projector so that what he sees, they see. Then he looks up, meeting their eyes one by one, and a pair of striking blues catch his attention almost immediately.

He falters, his mouth hanging slightly ajar as everything he was about to say flees from the tip of his tongue. The other man’s eyes are wide, his jaw clenched as he, too, seems to recognize Dean from this morning. Dean cocks his head, thinking that he should probably be more embarrassed, but he’s not—he’s angry.

Angry because now he knows _exactly_ what the man was thinking this morning when he saw Dean stumble through the lobby. Dean almost wants to laugh—if only the other man knew that Dean is his new boss. Dean clears his throat, gathering himself enough to tear his eyes away and move on.

“We’re going to do something a little different this morning,” Dean decides on a whim as he swipes to the end of his slides. “Normally, I’d teach you the ins and outs of the business first, but I think I want to hear your ideas, to begin with. Any volunteers? Any particular… _trend_ you’re interested in?” He raises an eyebrow, watching each face carefully—he can already tell who’s not going to make it through the day. The one in the baggy suit in the back, for example, who looks like he’d rather be sleeping off his hangover at home than in Dean’s conference room, probably won’t even make it until lunch.

“You,” Dean says, pointing to a gentleman near the front who’s talking behind his hand to the lady beside him. The guy freezes, his eyes going wide as he sits up straight. “What’s your name?”

“Garth, sir,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking around the room as he holds his notebook tighter to his chest.

“Why don’t you share something with the group, huh?” Dean takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze burning into the shaky man as he flips through the pages of his notebook.

When he gets to what he’s looking for, he grins, smug as anything, and Dean has to take another sip of his coffee to hide his smirk. “How about redefining the scarf? Scarfs were big last year, so why not—”

Dean holds up a hand and Garth's mouth snaps shut. “Stop,” he says and flips through his slide again until he finds the one he’s looking for. “ _Last year_ is the death of the fashion industry. If we kept going back to _last year’s hits_ we’d be stuck in the seventeenth century, and as much as the world loves Shakespeare, he had no sense of fashion.” Dean pushes out from the table and stands up, ignoring the murmurs of the new hires as he sets down his iPad and prepares to flip to the next slide.

“Anyone else?” He looks around the room but no one raises their hand. “No? Alright,” Dean paces slowly from one side of the room to the other, his cup in one hand while the other rests in his pocket. “How about socks and sandals?” He turns to face the room, leveling his gaze on the man from the lobby of his building. He looks like he’s about to be sick—all the blood has drained from his face and his jaw tightens rhythmically.

Dean continues, “It’s unexpected—inventive. It’s something no one would expect, and—”

“But, sir. Socks and sandals are—”

Dean whips around, staring daggers at the blue-eyed man. “Are what?” He cocks his head to the side. “I bet you think it’s disgusting, don’t you? Unsightly, perhaps?” Dean raises both eyebrows, holding the man’s gaze as he blushes a bright red and sinks deeper in his chair. “What’s your name?” he asks, and the man stumbles over the syllables before finally managing to spit it out.

“Castiel, sir. Castiel Novak.”

“Castiel,” Dean says, feeling the shape of the name on his tongue. “Disgusting is the correct descriptor, am I right?” Dean stares him down, and after a minute, Castiel goes very pale and looks down at his left hand, which rests against his notebook.

Dean carries on with his lecture, but his eyes stay focussed on Castiel, watching his throat bob as he swallows hard, before gently tugging at his sleeve. “That brings me to my next point,” Dean says, watching as Castiel comes to the same realization he did, not an hour and a half ago. “Being able to spot a bad idea.” He looks like he’s about to throw up, but he just closes his eyes and ducks his chin, taking deep breaths as Dean moves on.

Dean glances at the clock on the wall every few seconds. _Still ten minutes to twelve_ , but he can’t stop himself. He’s too jittery to work, though he tries—really, he does. The contracts are half signed, and he got some other paperwork done, but he’s just too nervous to focus. He knows Castiel will want to talk, he’s just not sure when.

Shaking his head, he redoubles his efforts to get the stack of contracts signed before he breaks for lunch. He hunches over the one in front of him, readjusting his pen as he scrawls his name on the marked line.

Dean manages to work for about fifteen more minutes—though jumpy and unsettled—until Hannah’s voice comes over the intercom.

“Mr. Winchester, I have someone by the name of,” she pauses, and Dean can hear a mumbled voice on the other end of the line. “Mr. Novak, here to see you.”

Dean’s heart leaps in his chest and his stomach twists in knots. “Send him in, please.” He hears the click of the phone, and a few seconds later, his door cracks open and a head of dark hair peeks in. “Mr. Novak. Sit.” Dean says, gesturing at the pair of chairs on the other side of his desk.

Castiel seems to visibly prepare himself, taking a deep, steadying breath as he steps inside and closes the door behind him before crossing the office to stand in front of Dean’s desk.

Dean watches his progression, silently waving at the chairs when Castiel doesn’t take the first offer, and he waits for Castiel to finally pick a chair before speaking. “What can I do for you, Mr. Novak?” His voice is calm and even, though he feels anything but. His insides riot with nerves, and the more he thinks about the fact that he’s sitting across from his literal _soulmate_ , the more panicked he gets.

“I came to apologize for, you know, what happened this morning…” He trails off and, though his hands are hidden behind the desk, Dean knows he’s rubbing at his bare wrist. “I was flustered and I really didn’t mean any harm by what I said, it’s just—”

“You _really_ hate socks and sandals,” Dean says, cutting him off as he quirks an eyebrow. Castiel’s head snaps up, and a small smile turns up his lips before disappearing again.

“I genuinely thought you were lost,” he whispers, looking down at Dean’s desk now. “Taking social cues isn’t really my strong point,” he says and a tiny, nervous chuckle spills out.

Dean lets out a heavy sigh and rubs at the back of his neck as his eyes roam over his new employee. _What to do, what to do?_ He can’t exactly date him—not while he’s Castiel’s boss—but as he takes in his broad shoulders—filling out his suit just right—his perfect, square jaw, wonderfully tanned skin, and striking blue eyes, he realizes his soulmate might just be the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

Dean heaves another sigh and meets Castiel’s eyes. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Castiel swallows hard, his throat working as sadness bleeds into his whole being, but he nods. “You have to fire me, don’t you?”

Dean inhales sharply. He knows he should, but hearing the words from Castiel’s mouth hits something in him that he recoils against, and he changes his answer before it even comes out of his mouth. “It means we have a lot to talk about.”

Castiel’s attention sharpens and his eyes bore into Dean’s as he leans forward.

“I’m assuming you know what this means?” Dean asks, pulling his sleeve down to bare his wrist to Castiel, who nods his understanding. “Good.” Dean rolls his chair closer, resting his arms on his desk and folding his hands in front of him. “Before we continue, I just want to make one thing clear.” Dean’s voice drops to something much more serious, and he waits for Castiel to nod. “Up until this morning, I never thought I’d be caught dead in socks and sandals.”

Castiel cracks a smile at that, and so does Dean. He knows how ridiculous it sounds, but it is what it is. He gets back to the point.

“That being said, I never thought I’d meet my soulmate.”

They’re both silent as that word _soulmate_ hangs in the air between them. The implications of it weigh on Dean, as he’s sure they weigh on Castiel. To have just one person in the whole world that’s perfect for him in every way possible, and to have them sitting right across from you? It’s terrifying and exhilarating, all at the same time, and Dean doesn’t know what to do.

Castiel opens his mouth to speak before closing it again. He does this a few times before clearing his throat and leaning forward, his hand resting on the edge of Dean’s desk in a weird sort of offering as he meets his eyes. “I, um…I know we just met, and neither of us really knows how to do this, but,” he pauses, her shoulders jerking in an awkward shrug. “I’ve always wanted a soulmate,” Castiel whispers, his eyes turning shy. Then he grins, “Especially one who thinks, and I’m quoting here, _What a fucking dick._ ” His grin widens. “ _Damn cute, though_.”

Dean feels a blush creeping up from under his collar. “At least I didn’t think, and I’m also quoting, _Oh God, he’s wearing socks and sandals? That’s disgusting_.” They both laugh and the tension between them melts away as they smile across the desk at each other.

There’s a long stretch of comfortable silence before Dean digs up the courage to speak. “Did you…” Dean tilts his head to the side, his hand lifting to point at Castiel in an awkward gesture of nervous energy. “I mean, do you maybe want to, you know, go on a date? With me?”

Castiel bites his bottom lip, a shy smile spreading across his face as he glances up at Dean through a thick fan of dark lashes. “Yeah, Dean.” He nods, his head cocking to one side as his smile grows even wider. “Yes, I’d love to go on a date with you.”

Dean is struck, once again, by the beauty of his soulmate, and he smiles like a dopey idiot as he nods. “Good.” They just stare for a long time, not really caring that it’s in the middle of Dean’s office, or that Dean is Castiel’s boss—they can worry about all that later. Right now, Dean is just happy that all he could find to wear that morning were a pair of ratty old socks and his pool sandals.

_Eleven Months Later…_

Castiel lounges on the sofa in their apartment, a glass of red wine in hand as he waits for Dean to come out in his next suit.

“Okay,” he hears Dean say from the bedroom. “I’m not sure how I feel about this one, but be honest.”

Castiel keeps his eyes trained on the door as he sips from his glass, curling his legs under him and propping his chin on his fist as he waits. When Dean rounds the corner in a deep purple, velvet suit, Castiel can already tell it’s a no, but he lets Dean stand in front of him and turn a slow circle, his arms held out to his sides.

It’s always nice to get the chance to blatantly check out his boyfriend.

Dean raises both eyebrows when Castiel says nothing. “Well?” he asks, “What do you think?” Castiel scans him from top to toe one more time before scrunching up his nose and giving a sharp shake of his head. Dean sighs, “I didn’t think so,” and disappears into their bedroom.

Castiel chuckles, scooping up the remnants of their plate of nachos and pouring them into his mouth as he lays his head back on the sofa.

He and Dean have been dating for almost a year, now. After their first date, Castiel couldn’t get enough of Dean. There’s just something about him—besides the fact that he’s Castiel’s soulmate—that draws him in and makes him feel in ways he never has before, and after Dean got him a job at another fashion company, they didn’t bother hiding it anymore.

Castiel fell fast and hard, which made it so much harder when he got a job at Dean’s rival company. It almost ended their relationship, honestly. Castiel still thinks the only thing that saved it is the fact that neither of them could imagine a life without the other and they were both willing to do anything to fix things—well, that, and the fact that they agreed to keep work out of their personal life.

“Why don’t you try the one from the spring collection?” Castiel asks as he pulls his blanket up higher, snuggling deeper into the cushions. “You know, the—”

“Black one with the red accents?” Dean finishes as he steps into the living room, and he looks absolutely breathtaking. Castiel can’t speak for a solid thirty seconds as drinks Dean in. The soft, golden light of the room flickers in the accents and casts perfect shadows on Dean’s face, highlighting the smooth curves and sharp angles.

“No,” Castiel deadpans, before looking up to meet Dean’s startled face. He looks like he’s about to protest, but his jaw snaps shut when he sees the look in Castiel’s eyes. That one will be for him only.

“Okay, that’s fine.” Dean nods, swallowing hard as he shifts where he stands, his pupils blown wide and his face flushed. “I, uh…I have a few more.” He spins on his heel and hurries back into their room, already undressing as he goes.

Castiel doesn’t have to wait long, and when Dean comes out in a forest green suit with a slate-colored tie, Castiel gives a half nod. “It’s fine. Definitely a contender.”

Dean huffs, his shoulders sagging as he drops his head back to look at the ceiling. “Seriously? A _contender_? This is a great suit, Cas!”

Castiel tries to hide his smile. “I never said it wasn’t great. It’s just not the _right_ suit.” He shrugs, his shoulders bouncing as he refills Dean’s wine glass.

“Fine,” Dean growls and spins around. Castiel chuckles, shaking his head. Dean won’t take his opinion, anyway, and they both know it. _He’s_ the fashion icon, after all, so what does Castiel know? Besides, Castiel is always blown away by Dean’s insight when he finally _does_ pick a suit, so he’s not too worried.

“Oh!” Castiel hears from the bedroom and his head snaps up. “Oh, yeah. You’ll love this one,” Dean says, and Castiel narrows his eyes, suddenly suspicious—he knows that tone. “I think this is it, baby! I think I’ve found the winner!”

When Dean steps out of their bedroom with his arms spread wide and a shit-eating grin on his face, Castiel throws his head back and laughs as Dean does a slow spin.

“Definitely the winner,” Castiel agrees, nodding as Dean does different poses, standing in his hotdog pajamas, stained sleep shirt, housecoat, and socks and sandals. “New York Fashion Week won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Dean flops down beside Castiel and takes the wine glass from his hands, setting it on the coffee table before leaning in close. “Definitely a winner?” Dean whispers as their lips brush.

“Definitely,” Castiel whisper back before fisting a hand in Dean’s shirt and pulling him closer. Their lips meet in a heated kiss and Dean pushes Castiel back until he’s lying with his head on the arm of the sofa, Dean’s body draped across his own. Castiel pulls away after a minute, panting and clutching at the ugly housecoat. He meets Dean’s eyes when he speaks, “But if you ever wear that out in public again, I’m going to have to break up with you.”

Dean scoffs, pulling away just far enough to really stare down at Castiel. “What a fucking dick!”

Castiel smiles, his heart, warming at the sound of the words that have been ingrained in his mind since the day he knew what they meant. He pulls Dean in for another long, slow kiss, and grunts his displeasure when Dean pulls away again, though they’re still close enough for their lips to brush when Dean speaks, “Damn cute, though.”

Castiel grins so wide, his cheeks ache, and wraps his hand around the back of Dean’s head, twining his fingers in his hair and pulling him in hard. This time, he holds tight—not letting Dean go for anything in the world.

**Author's Note:**

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> ~  
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> ~  
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